


I Think I'm Okay

by wocket



Category: John Mulaney - Fandom, Machine Gun Kelly (Musician), Real Person Fiction, Saturday Night Live RPF, US Comedians RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, Disability, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mile High Club, Oral Sex, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-14 05:41:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20595623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: John Mulaney and Pete Davidson start to grow closer, which may or may not have disastrous consequences. After a rough night, Nick Kroll is  there to comfort John Mulaney, and Colson Baker tries to cheer up Pete Davidson. Chapters can be read as stand-alones or together.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RandomTVJunk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomTVJunk/gifts).

> Chapter 1: John Mulaney/Pete Davidson, Chapter 2: John Mulaney/Nick Kroll, Chapter 3: Pete Davidson/Colson Baker (MGK)  
Chapters can be read as stand-alones.  
Disclaimer: This is a work of **fiction**.  
Chapter titles from songs by Machine Gun Kelly, Bob Dylan, and Cage The Elephant.

The lines of friendship blur so easily.

John Mulaney takes Pete Davidson to a New York Knicks game, and afterward, Pete asks John if it’s a date.

“Not if I don’t get a kiss,” John remarks casually, which Pete takes as a challenge. Pete pushes John underneath a stairwell and backs John up against the wall, eyes dropping to John’s mouth. Pete leans in and presses a kiss to his mouth, and John clutches Pete’s hoodie, maintaining distance between them. 

“We can’t,” he says.

“Sure we can,” comes Pete’s swift response.

He tries it again. Pete doesn’t expect John to lean into the kiss, to open his mouth and let Pete slide his tongue in. Pete kisses him only enough to give him a taste, leaving him pink-cheeked and wanting more.

Pete chortles a little, amused by John and how easily he warmed up for Pete. He smirks. “Someone likes being kissed.”

*

Inspired by the moment they shared after the Knicks game, Pete takes advantage of his other chances to kiss John. It becomes easy to press his mouth to John’s after he’s been drinking. Pete starts to really like their drunken hook-ups and then he realizes that he’s the only one who’s drunk. John’s been sober every time.

_Huh_.

*

A single kiss here and there turns into furtive make-out sessions in green rooms after shows or in the haze of Pete’s apartment.

Pete likes to smoke weed before they make out, and after. Sometimes even at the same time. Pete’s always wanting to shotgun out of habit. 

Pete always offers John the blunt after he hits it, even though he declines each time. “I’m just being polite, man,” Pete tells him, smoke escaping from his mouth with each word.

John always tastes like his cigarettes and Pete always tastes like weed, and their hands _always_ wander.

*

Pete and John start doing these stand-up shows together on Sundays, and Pete thinks it’s one of the best things he’s ever been allowed to do in his career. He can’t believe he’s getting paid to hang out with John Mulaney.

After one of their shows, Pete jumps John’s bones. Pete drags John into his dressing room and John and Pete slink around in the dark. None of the lights are on, and four of Pete’s homies are passed out on the floor and in various chairs. 

Pete pushes John onto the couch in the dressing room. He straddles John’s slim hips, enjoying the bewildered look on his face. Pete’s the first one to bring their mouths together. John tries to look around nervously, but Pete holds his face still, hand on John’s jaw.

Adrenaline running high, they make out on the sofa. Pete’s not forceful, but he’s firm, leading John into deep, dirty kisses.

Pete grinds their hips together. John can’t help but buck up against him.

Pete sticks his tongue into John’s mouth, teasing him until John’s leaning up, trying to follow his mouth every time he pulls away. He grins, pleased that John is showing so much interest.

Pete’s humping John’s thigh, short little thrusts, then Pete’s unzipping his own fly and palming his dick.

John looks around for a blanket, anything to hide their bodies, but they’re out of luck. 

“Relax,” Pete says, sure of himself. “Everybody did bars earlier. You’re fine.”

John frowns, still feeling weird about fooling around with Pete with so many people in the room even if they were conked out on Xanax. He looks over but everyone is still sleeping, and then Pete is grabbing his hand and moving it to his cock.

John still thinks they’re about to get caught, but his long fingers close around Pete’s dick. “That’s it, man,” Pete encourages in a low voice. 

John jerks Pete off, twisting his wrist when Pete’s breath catches in his throat. John tries to keep his voice down, tries to stop himself from making passioned little sounds. He grips him tighter, running his thumb over the slit on the head of Pete’s dick.

Pete’s eyes sink closed. John picks up the pace when Pete reaches a hand out to steady himself, thrusting into John’s hand. 

John’s long fingers are agile, and they feel good wrapped around his dick. John jerks him with deft fingers, applying pressure to tease him. Pete has to cover his mouth when he comes over John’s fist.

John blinks, coming back to his senses and looking around the room. None of the guys have moved; they’re all still passed out on the floor. His heartbeat slows down a few beats.

“Fuck, dude,” Pete says under his breath. “That was awesome.”

John extricates himself from Pete quickly. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes as he pulls on his jacket. “I have to go.”

John exits the dressing room before Pete knows what’s happening.

*

Pete and his homeboys are chilling in the green room after one of Pete’s sets when John walks in. Mulaney spies the pile of cocaine on the coffee table and pauses, staring at it for a long, hard moment, before walking out of the room. 

Pete follows John down the hallway, who makes it all the way to the stage door before Pete can catch him. “Yo, what’s up with you?’

“You don’t understand,” John says, and it’s the most serious Pete can ever remember him looking, even after the other day. He draws a smoke from his pack of cigarettes with shaky fingers. “I can walk away from weed, okay?” John sighs. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, trying to figure out how to explain his relationship to the drug. “If there’s coke in the room, I’m going to do it.”

“Oh, yeah, me too,” Pete agrees. 

“I know, Pete.” John flicks the tip of his cigarette. “The difference is that one of us is thirteen years sober.”

“Fuck, man, we’ll put it away. Come back.”

John drops the butt of his cigarette and steps on it, grinding the embers into the ground.

“I’m sorry, Pete. I’m going home.”

*

Pete convinces John to come over for dinner as a way of making things up to him. Pete promises that they’ll order takeout from John’s favorite Italian place, which he makes _John_ pick up on his way over to the apartment. 

“What the fuck is that?” Pete asks, watching John unbox their food.

“Salad? I’m sorry; I forgot that the only leafy green you recognize is marijuana.”

“We ordered Italian, yo. I expected some kind of pasta, or pizza, or something,” Pete said, looking at his alfredo with fondness. You sure you don’t want to slather some marinara sauce on your rabbit food?”

“I need to lose five pounds before I film my next special. We can’t all live fast and die young.”

“You should listen to yourself, dude. You sound like a psychopath.”

“I’m too old to die young, anyway,” John remarks, disappointed, looking at his salad with sad eyes. “You want a bite?” John asked, spearing a handful of lettuce and waving it at Pete.

“Kale no, motherfucker, not for me.”

“Maybe you’d like it if you gave it a try,” John tells him, sounding more like his mother than he’d realistically care to.

“No way, man, it is literally not meant for me. Can’t digest it,” Pete reminds him.

“Oh, yeah, Crohn’s disease, right.” John probes deeper. “So no nuts or seeds, either?”

“None of that shit, man. My body just doesn’t… it just doesn’t.”

“How long has it been? Since you’ve had it, I mean?”

“I was a senior in high school,” Pete thinks, looking back. “Ended up in the ER with crazy pain. I was in the hospital for a couple of weeks.”

It sucks, thinking about a young Pete in pain with no way to stop it, and John doesn’t know what to say. “Wow.”

“My pediatrician told my mom that most kids with Crohn’s end up addicted to something later on in life,” Pete admits. “Which is kind of fucked up, I guess, whether it’s true or not.” Pete fiddles with his shoelace as he talks. “My last year of high school I was on a ton of painkillers; Oxys, Vicodin, Demerol.”

“Demerol? Like Michael Jackson’s favorite painkiller?”

“That shit’s amazing,” Pete opines, then realizes how he probably sounds to John. “I mean, it works. If you’re in pain.” John nods. “So does the weed.”

“I understand, Pete,” John tells him. “I’m not telling you not to do it.”

“You should see the difference,” Pete says, scoffing. 

“Sounds like it really helps. And the cocaine?”

Pete grins. “You got me there.” He leans back with a sigh. “I mean, it’s not like I’m not a total stoner, one hundred percent. I like to have fun.”

“I can see that,” John says, and Pete throws a plastic fork at him.

“It’s crazy, man. Like if I’m having a flare, I can take my prescriptions and I’ll still feel like shit. If my stomach hurts it’s two pills for the pain, then another pill to try and stop the nausea, and it just gets worse from there, you know? Or I can smoke a bowl and feel better like almost instantly.”

“Right.”

“What does it feel like?” John asks quietly, surprised that Pete is sharing so much with him.

“The pain?” Pete looks surprised. Maybe nobody’s ever asked him before. 

“It fucking sucks, dude. It’s like… it’s like somebody stabbing you. Then they do it again and again and again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry, man. It is what it is,” Pete says, having accepted his fate long ago. “You don’t have to pity me,” Pete warns him.

“Okay, then,” John agrees. “Well, it’s a much better reason than I ever had.” He waits a beat. “And the coke?”

Pete feels less enlightened than John, somehow. “I can’t just want something for myself? What do you want me to say, Mulaney? I do it because of some fucked up reason in my past? I do it because it’s fun. I like it.”

“Touche.”

“It makes me feel so fucking good,” Pete explains. “Like I’m invincible. The first time I tried it… I was like, wow, this is what it’s like to not feel like shit. I know it sounds dumb but coke saved my life. I was in a really bad spot; like, I wanted to die, man. I was ready for it. Then somebody got me high, and…” Pete mimics an explosion with his hands. “That was it. You know?”

“Being high… it was the only time I ever felt like I was in control,” John admits. John gets it. More than Pete knows.

“Right?” Pete turns to face John. “Don’t hate me for asking this, but - do you miss it? Ever?”

John takes a deep breath. It’s a question he doesn’t let himself think about (ever). “Most of the time? No.” He keeps going. “Ten percent of the time? More than anything in the world. But I was an asshole, Pete.”

“I find it hard to believe that.”

“You’ll just have to trust me,” John says, not eager for that part of himself to resurface.

“I’m sorry,” Pete offers suddenly.

“What for?”

“I didn’t realize how hard it was, I guess. I think the longest I was clean was only, like, three months or something. I shouldn’t be doing this in front of you all the time.”

“That’s not what this was about,” John tells him. “It’s your medicine.”

“My place doesn’t need to look like Scarface’s apartment when you come over, though, man.”

John eyes him, wondering if his friend just matured a little. He reaches out and tugs on Pete’s sleeve until Pete scoots closer, maneuvering his way underneath John’s arm. It’s about this time that Pete would normally go for a hit of something, but instead he winds his arms around John’s waist, resting his head on John’s chest. 

They feel closer now, somehow.

John looks him in the eye, and Pete takes advantage of the opportunity to kiss him. John’s mouth opens up under his.

“You should stay tonight,” Pete says, hoping John will take him up on the offer. John is into the cuddling, and they’d hooked up a few times, but things had never gone further than a few good-natured gropes. 

Pete leads them into his bedroom, where he sits on the edge of the bed. John stands in front of him, bending down for a kiss. His mouth is tender, and John kisses Pete slowly, taking his time. 

Pete runs his hands across John’s chest, reaching for the first button on his plaid shirt. He stops when he gets about halfway down. “We really doing this?”

“You tell me, kid,” John answers, his hand hovering at the hem of Pete’s shirt.

Before John can change his mind, Pete reaches up and pulls John down, wrestling him to the bed. He sits up from where he’s straddling John and strips his own shirt off, throwing it to the floor. He bites his lip, thrusting against John. 

John’s hands come up to skim across Pete’s abs, across his shoulders, down his arms. His hands are warm, and Pete likes the way they feel moving across his skin. John makes him feel taken care of, safe.

They keep making out, and Pete realizes things are not stopping here.

“Come on,” Pete says, pulling on the leg of John’s jeans. “Get these off.”

After he does, John nudges Pete down onto the covers, unbuttoning his jeans and pulling them off Pete’s legs. He gropes Pete over the cotton fabric of his boxers, and the young man gets rid of them before John can ask.

John sucks him off, getting his dick nice and wet. Pete tries not to thrust up into John’s mouth, grabbing the sheets until his knuckles turn white.

Tongue exhausted, John climbs back up beside Pete, letting Pete press open-mouth kisses along his collarbone. “You wanna get on your knees?” he asks, and John scrambles into position wordlessly, which makes Pete’s cock jump.

Pete reaches for the lube he keeps in his bedside drawer. He coats two fingers liberally, pressing the first inside John until he hears him moan. Pete can tell John likes it. It doesn’t take much until John is begging him for a second, and then Pete works him open with three fingers and his tongue until John can’t form words.

Pete squeezes John’s hip before lining himself up and pressing inside. John makes a soft noise, one he probably hadn’t meant to let slip. 

Pete can’t get over the sight of his dick slipping into John’s ass. He thrusts in slowly, shallow thrusts that leave John gasping. Pete groans when he finally pushes all the way in, steadying himself with a hand on John’s hip.

Pete tries to get a steady rhythm going, but the angle is weird. He tugs John up onto his knees. “That’s it,” he encourages, thrusting harder. 

John’s head droops but he pushes his hips back against Pete’s.

“Ohhh,” Pete breathes. He was normally vocal but this was something else. “Fuck, you like that, don’t you?” John’s answer is a choked moan, and Pete thrusts harder in response. He fists a hand in John’s brown hair, using it as leverage as he fucks into him. “You feel so good.”

John rests his forehead on his folded arms, arching his back and sticking his hips up in the air. Pete just groans, enamored, and fucks him harder, picking up speed.

“Tell me what you want, baby,” Pete says, gripping John’s hair tighter. John tries to answer but it just comes out as a muffled whimper. “Look at you,” Pete murmurs.

Close to orgasm, Pete starts pounding harder, thrusting deep until his balls clench and he starts coming. He pulls out and finishes all over John’s ass, wiping him off with a dirty t-shirt before nudging him and making him lie on his back. 

John runs a hand through his hair, trying to catch his breath, when Pete puts his hands on John’s thighs and leans in. His mouth is warm, and John’s dick is heavy on his tongue. He chokes a little when he tries to swallow John down, but John just pets his hair and says “_Easy_.”

Pete does it again, just to feel John’s fingers in his hair.

Pete grins around John’s dick, but he doesn’t slow down, still trying to impress John. His fingers dig into John’s pale thighs. He presses harder until John winces, then wraps his fingers around the base of John’s dick.

Pete swivels his tongue around the head of John’s cock, flicking it with his tongue. He slides his tongue down the underside and across John’s balls, sucking them into his mouth before returning his attention to John’s dick.

Pete lets John come in his mouth, but he frowns around the salty taste, covering his mouth with his hand so he can get up. He finds a coffee mug leftover from earlier that morning and spits in it, much to John’s chagrin.

Pete goes to put his basketball jersey back on but John stops him. “Okay.” Exhausted, Pete lies back on the bed next to John. “That was unexpected.”

John wipes the sweat from his brow. Once he catches his breath, he runs his fingers across Pete’s tattoos, tracing each of them with a fingertip. Pete watches him at first, then closes his eyes, relaxing and letting the feel of John’s hand wash over him.

It’s not long before he starts to drift off to sleep. Pete doesn’t even smoke a bowl before bed, just lets John’s hands work magic on his skin.

*

The next morning, Pete gets up to make John coffee. John’s never slept over like this, and he’d certainly never given it up for Pete like that before. Pete is reminiscing fondly about last night when John enters the kitchen and walks up behind Pete. He’s shirtless, stirring sugar into John’s coffee. “That mug better be clean,” John jokes.

Pete wants suddenly to kiss John, so he does. For no reason at all, he abandons the coffee mug and leans down, pressing his chapped lips against John’s. 

John has to look up to reach Pete, something unusual for a man of his height, but he lets himself be kissed. Pete’s hand comes up to rest at the small of John’s back, pressing gently.

“So you got plans today?” Pete asks, hopeful. It seems like John is always making rushed exits.

“What’d you have in mind?”

“Maaaaybe you could stick around? Or do you have some other comedian to bone?”

John rolls his eyes, knowing that Pete is likely referring to his buddy Nick Kroll. “Be nice.” 

“Sometimes I get the feeling you don’t like me.”

“I like you, Pete. That is definitely not it.”

“Right.”

“I can’t stick around for long — _don’t make that face_ — I have a meeting.”

“We’re comedians. Our jobs literally do not start until sundown.”

“How have you not been fired from SNL yet? I mean, in the strictest sense that statement is true, but there are TV shows, movies, network gigs; the modern comedian is not limited to stand-up sets in dirty clubs anymore —“ 

“Yeah, okay,” Pete says, throwing his hands up. “You sound like my agent. Get out of here.” 

*

“Pete?” John asked, answering his iPhone.

“Mulaney. Guess what?”

“As much as I’d love to help you hide the body, I’m almost late for a meeting.”

“No body here. Not this time. Guess who hasn’t smoked in days?”

John’s voice got lower, like he held his other hand up to the phone to shield his mouth. “Are you telling me I fucked the urge to get high out of _Pete Davidson_?”

“Um, not that extreme, dude. But it _was_ pretty fucking good,” Pete reminds him. “I want to see you again.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“You, Mulaney. Be at my place at nine.”

John hangs up the phone, wondering what the hell he’s got himself into.

*

Pete might not have smoked in days, but he’s high on _something_ when John shows up at his apartment just after nine o’clock. 

John recognizes Pete’s blown pupils soon enough, and he looks at Pete pointedly. “Where is it?”

Pete looks guilty, but only playfully so. He snatches a little baggie out of the front pocket of his jean jacket and dangles it in front of John. 

“Say hello to my little friend,” Pete quips. It’s a slightly misused reference but he knows John will get it. “Want to play?”

John’s mouth drops, and right now he’s looking at the baggie of the familiar white powder with more lust than he’s ever looked at Pete. John is horny and most of all, he’s fucking human.

“Just one line,” John agrees. He knows it’s a lie as soon as it comes out of his mouth.

*

Pete uses a credit card to arrange the powder into messy white lines. He snorts one for himself, then slides the CD case over to John, who does the same with no hesitation.

“Is that a CD?” John asks, laughing. It was a demo Colson had sent over to Pete last week. “Man, this really is a throwback. I haven’t done lines off a jewel case since 2003.”

“A taste of nostalgia, just for you,” Pete bullshits.

“You remind me of someone sometimes,” John tells him as he’s laying out another line for each of them.

“Well, I hope she’s pretty,” Pete smirks.

“Not what I meant.” He’d meant _himself_. He watches Pete do another line, then does the same before reaching out for him, needing something under his hands, already feeling the familiar sensation in his blood. 

Pete snorts another line. “Why are you so far away?” In another moment, he’s in John’s lap. 

John hugs Pete to his chest. He runs his fingers through the short hair at the base of Pete’s neck. They kiss until John decides he wants more coke, holding Pete around the waist with one arm and leaning around him to snort a fat line with his free hand. 

Pete tries to kiss the remaining powder off John’s mouth, his own lips starting to go numb. It made John laugh but he kisses back fervently, feeling wired and wonderful, loving the way Pete feels underneath his hand and the way the cocaine feels in his system.

One line turns into another, a few lines turn into a gram, and a gram turns into an entire bag. The rest is history.

*

Sunrise rears its ugly head sooner than expected. By morning Pete and John are back-to-back in Pete’s comfy bed, groggy and despondent.

“Pete?”

“What the hell, man?” Pete groans, trying to block the light from his eyes.

“Sorry; were you asleep?” John asks apologetically.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Shit. I can’t ever sleep after,” John remarks. “Have you seen my cellphone?”

Pete tosses his iPhone to him before reaching for his own cellphone. 

There’s only one person John wants to talk to right now, only one person who might understand. His iPhone battery is almost dead, but John pulls up his text messages with a familiar contact - Nick Kroll. 

_I’ve made a horrible mistake. Are you there? :/_

Beside him, Pete is sending an almost identical text message to his own lifeline:

_sup colson you in town? i fucked up!_

John and Pete barely have a chance to put their phones back down before they both start to buzz with a response.


	2. Shelter From the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick Kroll consoles John Mulaney after a night of mistakes.

“You look rough, buddy,” Nick Kroll tells John Mulaney when he answers the door. “No judgment here, though, come in.”

“Can I use your bathroom?”

John holds himself together until he gets inside the bathroom. He braces his hands on the sink. He starts to cry. After a few seconds, he turns the faucet on, so the water will hide the sound of his tears. 

He hiccups and balls his hands into fists, trying to stifle his sobs, knowing Nick is in the other room, listening for him. He sinks back against the wall and down to the floor, hiding his face in his arm. He’s not sure why he’s falling apart like this, why he can’t keep it together _now_ all of a sudden. 

John sucks in a shaky breath and smacks his forehead. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. After a minute or two, he tries to pull himself together.

Nick is waiting patiently on the other side of the door when John finally comes out.

“Why don’t you text Anna and let her know you’re okay?” Nick reminds John gently.

“Good idea,” John says, digging in his pockets for his phone.

“You’re weepy,” Nick observes, like it’s not the most embarrassing thing in the world. “I’m guessing you didn’t just get drunk last night.”

“No.” John’s voice is hoarse, his throat still sore from the night before.

Nick refrains from making a comment, which is _exactly_ why John called him. 

“You want something for breakfast?”

John shakes his head no.

“Just tea, then,” Nick says, like a mother hen, moving into the kitchen.

John waits on the sofa, head drooping, while Nick brews a pot of tea. Nick gives him a little blue pill with his teacup. “Xanax,” he tells him.

John manages a thumb up.

Nick flops down onto the sofa beside John. “So where were you last night?”

“Pete’s.”

“Ah.” Nick waits before continuing. “You look like you haven’t slept.”

“I haven’t. I… may have done some things I shouldn’t have,” John confesses, chasing the Xanax with the warm tea.

“Things? Plural?”

John winces and nods.

“Wait - did you two…”

John nods, unable to answer Nick.

“Oy,” is all Nick can manage at first. “I can’t believe you are going to let some punk from Staten Island ruin your life.”

“Leave Pete alone. He’s a good kid.”

“He’s not a kid, Mulaney, he’s a bad influence and a grown-ass man who is 100% responsible for his choices.”

“I don’t want to talk about this,” John says miserably.

“Believe it or not, me neither,” Nick agrees. He gets up and John thinks he might storm away in a huff but he just goes to his shelf of movies. He holds up two DVDs. The first is some award show screener John doesn’t recognize, and the second is Charlie Chaplin’s _The Kid_.

“Do you even have to ask?”

Nick pops open the box and slides in the disc. John starts to visibly relax as the movie begins.

“You know Chaplin had six gagmen,” Nick comments.

John almost drops his cup of tea.

“Are you coming for Charlie Chaplin?”

“What? No?”

“I feel like shit and you’re coming for Charlie Chaplin.”

“I’m not ‘coming for Charlie Chaplin’, John. I just think Harold Lloyd was the most inventive of the silent comics.”

“Chaplin was a genius!”

“Harold Lloyd planned out everything himself. The visuals, the gags, all of it.”

“I cannot believe you.”

“Look, I’m sorry, John,” Nick apologizes, reaching for John so he can smother him with an apology hug. John shirks him, setting down his teacup and moving to the other side of the sofa.

“Don’t apologize to me, apologize to Chaplin.”

Nick successfully gets an arm around John’s shoulders and pulls him closer.

“I just think to give other comedy writers shit as a comedy writer yourself is a little judgmental, that’s all, Nick,” John lectures.

“I miss sober you,” Nick mutters.

John looks at him again after a moment. “_Six_ gagmen, though? Really?”

Nick grins, smiling down at John, and he’s reminded of all those years they spent like this on ratty couches, in college and afterward, getting their comedy education by watching old films and then working on their own material, each of them at one end of the sofa, feet meeting in the middle.

Old habits are hard to break, and before he can talk himself out of it, Nick kisses John. 

Tired and affectionate, John puts his hand on the back of Nick’s neck and pulls him closer. It’s familiar and safe and _comfortable_. Nick has always been good for John.

“I’m sorry,” Nick says, pulling away, though he keeps his grip on John. “I shouldn’t have done that. _We_ shouldn’t have done that,” he worries, remembering all the reasons why.

“Yeah. I know,” John replies, disappointed. “I’m doing a lot of things I shouldn’t lately.”

"You must be exhausted." Nick extricates himself from John so he can grab a pillow and a blanket from the closet in the hall. “Here. Get some sleep,” he says, tossing the blanket to a very bleary-eyed John. It’s the last thing he says before disappearing behind his bedroom door.

*

Nick’s sitting in his bedroom - definitely not sleeping - when he hears the knock. Mulaney, ever so polite. 

“Come in,” Nick calls, but John’s already pushing the door open. 

“I don’t want to be alone,” John says, rather miserably, and Nick’s heart expands. 

“Get in here,” Nick says, pulling the covers back. He doesn’t have to ask twice for John to crawl in beside him.

“You ran away.” John’s wrapping his skinny arms around Nick before either one of them can stop him. “Am I really that repulsive?”

Nick brushes the sweaty hair away from his forehead. “You’re not repulsive,” Nick replies quickly, kissing John’s forehead. “I just don’t want you to do anything else you regret.”

John closes his eyes and finally starts to relax under Nick’s touch. “Could never regret you, Nick,” John mumbles into his shoulder. It makes Nick’s heart skip a beat but he lets it go. 

“You want to sleep in here?” Nick asks, knowing full well that John is already falling asleep in his arms. Like their intimate moment on the sofa, it reminds Nick of a time when things were different.

John nods, his system finally giving in.

Nick strokes John’s hair until he drifts off to sleep.


	3. Black Madonna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Colson Baker (Machine Gun Kelly) takes Pete Davidson's mind off John Mulaney.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of **fiction**.  
Chapter titles from songs by Machine Gun Kelly, Bob Dylan, and Cage The Elephant.

Colson answers the door shirtless. “What up,” Colson greets.

“Yo.” Pete walks in to Colson’s house like he owns the place. 

“Here,” Colson offers, passing Pete a bowl. “It’s already packed.”

“I fuckin’ love you,” Pete says gratefully, digging in his pocket for a lighter. “I just really needed to not be in that apartment right now.”

“Anytime, dawg,” Colson answers. “Mi casa es su casa.”

Pete hits the bowl. Nothing like the first bowl of the day, especially after a night like last night.

“You want a smoothie or somethin’?” Colson asks as they make their way through the house, ever the generous host.

“Nah, I’m straight,” Pete refuses, but he grabs a six-pack out of Colson’s fridge.

“I’ve been chilling by the pool. Join me in my office,” Colson beckons, and Pete follows him outside. They sit at the edge of the pool, dipping their feet into the water. “You wanna talk about it?” Colson inquires. All he knows is that Pete looks fucked up and that Pete _thinks_ he fucked up.

“Uhh, let me think about that one: _no_.”

Colson stares Pete down, knowing he’ll eventually open up. “You sure?” He tries again after Pete smokes a little bit more. “What’s up with you, man?”

Pete cracks open a beer. “Story of my life, bro. Got way too fucked up; fucked somebody I probably shouldn’t have.”

“Too fucked up? No such thing,” Colson laughs. “Sounds like a typical Friday night. Who’s the lucky girl?”

Pete winces. “John Mulaney.”

“Oh, shit.”

“It gets worse. Mulaney’s been clean for like thirteen years, dawg.” Pete swallows. “I think it might be my fault.”

“You’re persuasive, Pete, but I don’t think you made him do anything he didn’t want to do already.”

“Yeah, but like, how can you be sure?”

Colson sighs. “Trust me.” Pete could be too sweet for his own good sometimes. “He knows how to say no. Don’t blame yourself.”

“He’s been sober for a really long time.”

“I’m telling you right now, fuck that shit, homie. That ain’t your job.”

“I guess John does know what he’s getting himself into,” Pete admits.

“I never thought I’d see the day when Pete Davidson was hung up on some skinny white bread comedian.”

“Shut up,” Pete laughs, shoving Colson. He reaches down and flings a handful of water at him. They grin together, until Colson is sure his boy is still in there somewhere.

“Hey, I’m shooting the video for the new single this weekend. You wanna come?”

“Yeah, sweet. I’ll tag along.”

“Awesome. You’re going to go home, pack a bag and get your ass back here.”

Pete looks confused. “Where’s the shoot?”

“Miami.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“_Oh, fuck_? You mean, thank you, Colson, for smoking me out and flying me down to the 305 like a motherfuckin’ rock star?”

“Thank you, Colson,” Pete repeats sweetly, grinning at his friend fondly and pretending to bat his eyelashes.

Colson makes a kissy face. “You think you can make it back to my place by nine AM, or you want me to send a car?”

“Send a car? Geez,” Pete mocks. “That Netflix money has really changed you.” 

Colson swats at Pete, who just ducks out of the way. 

“It’s gonna be exactly what you need to get him off your mind, dude, I promise. In the meantime, I just got an ounce of Blueberry Kush in from California and I think you’re going to be a fan.”

*

Smoking weed at 35,000 feet is an experience unlike any other. Getting high while you get high… nothing compares. 

Inside a chartered plane, Colson dangles his iPhone in front of his and Pete’s faces, recording a video for his fans. He exhales smoke in front of the camera. “South Beach, here we come!”

Pete, who normally shows off for the camera and plays around, looks up and merely flashes a peace sign. They’d spent the night before partying, Colson trying emphatically to get Pete’s mind off John. Pete hadn’t even bothered to go home, making it significantly easier to drag both of their plastered asses to the airport first thing in the morning.

Colson closes Snapchat and puts the phone away. “You’re still thinking about him, aren’t you?” he accuses, wishing Pete would just let go already.

“Guilty,” Pete admits.

Colson shakes his head, disappointed.“Look, Pete, I’ma be real - no point stressing about some shit in the past that you can’t change. Unless you _want_ to be thinking about Mulaney.”

“For real?” Pete asks. “Not right now. What, you got a good way to get him off my mind?”

“Maybe I do.” Colson smirks. “We need to occupy your mind,” he insists, passing the blunt to Pete, “and your mouth,” he flirts with a wink, testing the waters.

Pete grins. They’d been friends with benefits for who knows how long, a game of gay chicken that never stopped. Pete’s digs Colson’s confidence, and Colson’s always been into guys and girls that could make him laugh. Pete’s had such a weird couple of years with women that it’s been kind of nice to fool around with Colson and John (never at the same time, although that was certainly an image worth considering). He found both of them attractive for different reasons - totally, _completely_ different reasons - but his heart is big. Two years ago he wouldn’t have said he was even into dudes and now he’s fooling around with two of them.

“That sounds like a plan,” Pete responds with interest, almost coy, hitting the blunt and letting smoke curl between their bodies. He takes another hit and passes it back to Colson.

“Can I offer you something a little stronger?”

“Whatchu got in mind?”

“I’ve got some Addies. If you want,” Colson offers.

“Ohhh, fuck,” Pete says with a wide smile. If there’s nothing like smoking weed at flying altitude, there’s nothing like making out on Adderall. “Hell yeah.”

Colson procures a pill bottle from somewhere.

“Wait —” Pete snatches one of the pills before Colson can grind them up, choosing to swallow it instead.

“Suit yourself.”

Soon enough, they’re flying high, in more ways than one. When Pete starts feeling the pill kick in, he reaches over the armrest to Colson, dragging tingling fingertips over Colson’s tattoos.

Their bodies buzz, hearts beating faster, and Pete keeps up the motion, drawing little shapes and zig-zag patterns across his arm. Colson flips his palm up and they play with each other’s hands, enjoying the sensation of skin on skin.

Eventually, after spending a long time mindlessly touching, somebody turns their head, Colson or Pete or both of them, and they lean in for a kiss. Their mouths are soft, tasting like weed and cigarettes and just the right amount of risk.

It seems like they might just entertain themselves with a drugged make-out session until Colson starts kissing Pete’s neck, nipping playfully. Pete gets ticklish so Colson moves back to his mouth, kissing him with a little more gusto.

Pete starts to smile into Colson’s mouth; he pulls back. “The scruff, man,” Pete laughs. “I’m not used to it. It’s crazy, though, ‘cause your skin is mad soft.”

“I’ma pretend I didn’t hear that,” Colson tells him, putting a hand on the back of Pete’s neck to pull him in for another kiss. “Like I told you, I got a couple of ideas for occupying your mouth.”

“Believe it or not, Pete Davidson is not yet a member of the Mile High Club.”

“No shit? Here’s the plan,” Colson tells him, kissing him again, “I’m going to make you come - hard - and then you’re going to blow me.”

“I’m not gonna argue with that,” Pete surmises before sticking his tongue back in Colson’s mouth.

Colson keeps playing with Pete’s hand until he decides to take things up a notch. Palm pressed to Pete’s chest, Colson slowly moves his hand lower until he’s pushing Pete’s over-sized t-shirt out of the way, reaching underneath. He presses his hand flat against Pete’s abdomen, fingers caressing the skin.

After working Pete up, Colson reaches for his belt with fluid expertise. He gets Pete’s baggy jeans unbuttoned and gropes him over the fabric before reaching inside and pulling his dick out. Pete’s already half-hard.

Colson gives Pete a particularly dirty kiss before taking him in his fist. Colson spits in his hand and starts jerking him off. 

Both of them have lost track of the number of times they’ve hooked up, but Colson is attentive every time, eager to please Pete. He’s a fast learner, too, figuring out quickly what sort of things turn Pete on despite his inability to tell Colson what they are. Colson’s fingers are thin but talented, moving across Pete’s skin like it’s a challenge.

Pete swears. He’s not sure where to look, at Colson’s pale hand wrapped around his dick or Colson’s face or out the airplane window. When he does accidentally make eye contact, Colson’s blue eyes are bright and clear. 

Pete jerks into Colson’s fist, spilling over his hand with a groan. 

Colson presses the heel of his free hand to his own hard-on. Pete pushes his hand out of the way so he can do it instead, groping Colson over his pants. With little adieu, Pete works at Colson’s fly, sticking a hand inside once he gets it open.

“Mm-mm,” Colson declines, kissing Pete and pushing at his shoulders. “Come on, Pete.”

Pete drops to his knees in front of Colson. “Are we cool back here?” Pete asks, looking around the airplane, hands on Colson’s thighs.

“You’re paranoid,” Colson encourages, touching a finger to Pete’s lip. “I’m gonna take care of you.” He slides his finger between Pete’s lips. Pete sucks Colson’s thumb into his mouth, licking the pad of his tongue. He hollows his mouth around the finger before reaching up to pull Colson’s hand away so he can lean forward and get to work.

Colson braces his hands on the armrests as Pete starts licking at the head of his cock, swirling his tongue around the tip before taking him down further. 

Pete bobs his head, working his mouth around Colson’s cock until he’s groaning loudly.

“_Oh_,” Colson gasps, mouth formed into a perfect O. He’s vocal, responding to Pete’s work with little grunts and gasps that he tries to stifle with a fist in his mouth. He leans back, trying to reach for anything but Pete to occupy his hands. 

Pete is sloppy but earnest, gripping Colson’s thighs and sucking him off with wild and unpredictable affection. Pete’s always hot, but Colson loses his shit when Pete swallows him deep, taking him so far down his throat he starts to gag. Colson’s hips stutter and he comes, a sob getting lost in his own throat.

“That’s how it’s done,” Pete says, stupid and cocky. Despite other hook-ups, the’re still figuring out what came _after_, considering they usually pass out immediately after they come. He retakes his seat beside Colson.

Colson runs a hand through his short blond hair. “Damn. We are gonna crash _hard_ later.”

“I’m kind of looking forward to it,” Pete replies. He and Colson had already been awake for twenty-four hours straight, at least. “You got to film anything tonight?”

Colson shakes his head. “Call time is 10 AM.”

“Sweet!”

“All we’re doing tonight is getting lit, hanging at the beach, and fuckin’ some shit up. Maybe some more of whatever that was,” Colson adds, thinking of the sex, almost hopeful.

“Fuck yeah, man.” With those celebratory words, Pete lights up a post-sex blunt which he shares with Colson, who takes it with careful fingers.

“I should probably wash my hands.”

“Getting come on the blunt is definitely a party foul,” Pete agrees with a smirk.

Pete and Colson pass the blunt back and forth until the Miami skyline is visible through the windows, turquoise waters of the Biscayne Bay shining underneath the afternoon sun.

“How you feelin’, man?” Colson asks a few minutes later. 

“Actually, pretty damn good,” Pete answers happily. “Sucking dick must give you mad endorphins or something. Like exercise.”

“Only mine,” Colson replies, grabbing his junk. “It’s magic.” Colson snickers and Pete roll his eyes. “Nah, for real, though… you’re my boy,” he says proudly, pleased he’s been able to drag Pete from the pits of despair. Colson knocks their shoulders together. “I got you.”


End file.
